


spectaculum venandi (or: the unmaking of the hart)

by miscellanium



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Age Difference, Barebacking, Blasphemy, Drinking, Drunk Sex, First Time, M/M, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pre-Canon, Priests, Smoking, Teacher-Student Relationship, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Relationships, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-25 13:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30089823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscellanium/pseuds/miscellanium
Summary: Now that Maxwell had not only passed the age of reason but reached the age of majority, surely there were no longer any barriers to claiming what should rightfully belong to him.[maxwell wants to go out for his 18th birthday and gets anderson to accompany him.]
Relationships: Alexander Anderson/Enrico Maxwell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	spectaculum venandi (or: the unmaking of the hart)

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to [project_icarus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/project_icarus/) and [whimwitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimwitch/) for being my betas.
> 
> _odi et amo. quare id faciam fortasse requiris._  
>  _nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior._  
> 

Some years before 1999, Enrico Maxwell had his eighteenth birthday. He didn't especially care but the others at the orphanage did, so he'd been indulging them by dropping hints the past couple weeks that he'd rather have an outing than a physical gift. After he received the letter formally confirming his ascent to the directorship of Section 13 in two years, the hints became outright commands.

"I've put in the work to finish seminary early enough so I can be made bishop at twenty. I think that accomplishment deserves celebration. We should go somewhere." He closed the textbook he'd ostensibly been studying and leaned back in his seat. The wooden chairs in the library were all old enough to creak loudly under the slightest shift and he knew it.

Anderson looked up from his book, glasses low on his nose. "We?"

"Of course. Why should I go alone? It isn't a celebration then." He needed the recognition, the external validation of his efforts. He needed Father Anderson's attention. Anderson had probably meant "Why me?" but he wasn't going to answer that. "And this dreadful orphanage is no place to celebrate."

Anderson frowned at that but said nothing. No matter.

"I'll arrange things with Father Renaldo. You work with him to find a suitable location."

By leaving the orphanage Anderson would no longer be at the advantage, the both of them in unfamiliar territory and thus on equal footing. Anderson had spent more time out in the profane world but behaved as though he knew little of relaxation. And maybe that was the case; his twin responsibilities to Iscariot and Ferdinand Luke consumed most of his time and a good deal of the remainder was given over to preparing Maxwell for leadership. They'd been spending more time together since Maxwell had been ordained with Anderson's hands laid upon him, and while the boy treated much of it like leisure he knew the man viewed it as work. Work, despite the hand hovering over his shoulder on occasion that he pretended not to notice. Work, despite the long silences they'd share. Work, despite the fact that he could do much of it alone.

Now that Maxwell had not only passed the age of reason but reached the age of majority, surely there were no longer any barriers to claiming what should rightfully belong to him. Iscariot was as good as his which meant that they would all have to obey his orders. He might go a little easier on Heinkel and Yumiko since Anderson favored them, but the other soldiers were merely cannon fodder in the name of the Lord. Father Alexander Anderson, though, the Paladin of Section 13, the regenerator with a ferocious bloodthirst—he was different.

They'd shared dinners for many years, at a long communal table or in conference rooms with stacks of papers and the occasional glass of wine; within the domestic confines of the orphanage Anderson was always kind and gentle. But Maxwell had seen the vicious streak, the bloodied clothes, when he'd return from a mission or in the footage and photographs tucked away in the director's file cabinets. A living weapon, like a gun unholstered and loaded but not yet aimed. This would be Maxwell's privilege, to take hold of him and point him in any direction desired. In the direction of desire, even, because surely if he told Anderson to lay hands upon him he would be obeyed. The director of Iscariot was subservient only to the Pope and God, speaking in the name of Jesus Christ, and Anderson would always do as his lord commanded.

Never trained to use force, not in the way the others had, Maxwell had instead been taught how to wield bureaucratic influence. In a way this was more powerful since it covered more territory than just a battlefield, but he couldn't shake the lust to have Anderson at his side and know that this brute strength was his to control. No, it wasn't lust, for that would be a sin he'd have to confess. It was something holier—closer to Saints Sergius and Bacchus and the love between two soldiers, or David finding grace in Jonathan's eyes. Not that he needed to find grace in Anderson's eyes; he knew that no matter what he did Anderson would be his.

And Anderson had done as he was told, conferring with Renaldo and announcing during another tutoring session a few days later that they had identified a place where it would be safe to celebrate. A driver would be arranged and Anderson, in deference to the future director's wishes, would act as both bodyguard and escort.

Once the agreed-upon date had arrived Maxwell made sure his clothes were freshly pressed and hair perfectly brushed and bound, his white ponytail long and graceful and most definitely eye-catching. If he were to be a leader of course he'd have to look the part. Once they met at the car it was clear that Anderson hadn't bothered cleaning up at all, blond hair mussed and a few days of stubble as usual, not that he had expected him to. He liked the rough edges and the hulking contrast with his own slender frame. The ride was a silent one, winding through the dusk-dim streets of Rome, and when the driver stopped he realized that they'd pulled up in front of what appeared to be an old discoteca, line to enter and all.

"Really, Anderson?"

Anderson shrugged his broad shoulders. "We shouldn't have any enemies here. It's private." His point was made when his size got them in with ease and the people inside parted smoothly before him. While the building and interior looked outdated, it was still sufficiently popular to draw enough of a crowd. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and the occasional whiff of something earthier. Most of the people had Cokes in their hands or in front of them on the small tables that circled the dance floor, leaving the bar uncrowded. The space was dim with colored lights here and there, the shadows accentuating Anderson's strong jaw, and the music vibrating through the floor was just loud enough to necessitate seats at the bar right next to each other. Sitting like that they could hear each other without having to shout and risk drawing attention to themselves, meaning Maxwell could put a hand on Anderson's arm without suspicion. As he did so he could feel the muscles even underneath the coat and clerical shirt, an unnatural warmth radiating through the fabric and spreading up Maxwell's arm to the back of his neck.

"I want a cocktail."

"Sweet or bitter?"

"Either."

Anderson nodded and flagged down the bartender. "Give him some sambuca. Top shelf. He wants to try a cocktail. His first time. Any suggestions?"

He looked Maxwell over, glanced at Anderson, then with a knowing smile introduced himself as Luca and listed off several options. He described each in brief, touching on the liquors involved and the general flavor profile, then waited expectantly. The man looked to be about middle-aged, brown-haired and stubbled with a few lines around the eyes that lent to his air of expertise. In his black shirt and apron Luca looked a little like Anderson without the spectacles. It didn't help that his eyes lingered in the same way Maxwell had noticed from the priest sometimes.

" _Il Cardinale_. I like the sound of that." Maxwell grinned, tucking an imaginary stray strand of hair behind his ear. The gesture was one of habit; he'd only recently finished growing his hair out to the length he'd dreamed of. It felt good to be looked at like this, whether it was out of admiration or something more like desire.

Sliding a few lira notes across the counter to the bartender along with an order for a Peroni, Anderson took the shots of white sambuca they'd been given along with the bottle he'd requested and handed one to Maxwell. The young man watched Anderson knock his back then copied him; it wasn't a harsh drink like he'd expected but instead thick and velvety in his mouth.

While Luca busied himself with mixing up the cocktail, Anderson tasted his beer then pulled out a pack of Kensitas cigarettes from a coat pocket and stuck one in his mouth. "Want one?"

"I prefer MS."

"Suit yourself," Anderson said with a shrug. He used an old S.T. Dupont to light up, the flame briefly illuminating his face from below in a way that made him look like a movie star from decades past. Ever since realizing what it was Maxwell had wondered how a middle-aged priest got his hands on a luxury lighter but knew he wouldn't get a straight answer if he asked. Anderson was always evasive about his life prior to joining Iscariot.

"So, why a club and not an upscale restaurant?"

"This isn't as high-profile. Besides, where I'm from we go to pubs when we want to celebrate. This seemed close enough."

Just then the cocktail Maxwell had ordered was presented with a wink. It was a delicate red, the twist of the carefully skewered half orange wheel shining jewel-like above the ice, and savoring the mix of gin, Campari, and vermouth gave him time to think of a follow-up.

"Do you miss it? Where you're from."

"No." The answer was immediate and the way the man brought his beer to his lips made it clear he wasn't going to elaborate.

Maxwell didn't press further. The smell of Anderson's cigarette made him almost wish he'd taken one but he could smoke anytime he wanted. Being in a club with music pulsing through his body as he watched the bartender serve out soft and hard drinks to men of all ages wasn't an experience he'd be able to replicate as easily. It was more special than those quiet nights with wine since now there wasn't a table between Anderson and himself, the heat of Anderson's left thigh casually pressed against his own mirroring the alcoholic warmth building in him.

"You know, I've been thinking about the directorship. There's something I'd like to talk to you about."

Anderson glanced sideways at him, still drinking from the bottle.

"I've looked at your file." Maxwell smirked at Anderson's surprised expression, beer temporarily forgotten. It always felt good to have his full attention. "I let myself into the director's office. Heinkel showed me how to get the lock. Since I've already been chosen to be the next director it's only right for me to start familiarizing myself with those in my command. Anyway." He took another sip of his cocktail. It was now nearly gone and starting to show in the way his ears were turning a bit red. "I know about your past. Your...intimate relations. You can't tell me you don't still feel urges."

Anderson didn't respond, instead finishing his beer and motioning to the bartender with more lira notes to give them both another round.

Maxwell finished his drink as well and slammed the glass back down, staring at it and running a gloved finger around its rim. "Why should we be celibate anyway?"

"Careful, or you'll sound like a Protestant," said Anderson through gritted teeth as their drinks arrived.

With a huff Maxwell took a big swallow of his second drink. "Section 13 already sanctions murder and that goes against the big ten, doesn't it? Everything else pales in comparison. We would have better soldiers if they were not distracted by trying to repress all of their earthly urges. And don't," he held up a hand to forestall Anderson's visible objection. "Don't try that 'channeling desire' nonsense on me. It's absolutely a distraction and I know you know that."

Anderson grunted. "You're being long-winded again." But he didn't deny it and Maxwell seized on the opening.

"We can't risk temptation while out on a mission, now can we? Best to nip that in the bud and eliminate the liability." Glass still in hand, he pointed at the older man so as to leave no doubt what he meant.

"It's not murder if it's just monsters and heathens," Anderson muttered, examining the Peroni label on his beer before taking a long swallow.

Maxwell scoffed. "Oh, _that's_ what you want to argue with? If it weren't for the Vatican's protection you would have ended up in front of the Corte d'Assise long ago. All of us."

Without acknowledging Maxwell's point Anderson drank again then took off his gloves and started picking at the label with his short fingernails, focusing intensely on the task he'd set himself. His hands were not especially calloused thanks to his regenerative capabilities, the scar on his face an old wound from before he'd been taken in by Section 13, and the way he carefully worked to peel off the label without tearing it made it easy to imagine what those deft fingers might be able to do elsewhere.

"I'm sure you've had to take care of yourself on occasion."

"Don't push it."

Baring his teeth in a grin, he finished his second cocktail. "The lab notes from the regeneration experiments and procedures are quite interesting. Those doctors went into quite a bit of detail."

"I said don't." Anderson was glaring at him now, label forgotten, and without breaking eye contact signaled for another round as if by reflex. "That has nothing to do with you."

"Nothing? I beg to differ." Maxwell took the third glass, sliding the two empty ones in the bartender's direction to be collected. "I've seen the way you look at me sometimes."

The way Anderson's expression changed brought him back to the time he'd found himself in Santa Maria del Popolo before Caravaggio's _Conversione di San Paolo_ , staring at St. Paul's face at the bottom of the canvas and trying to understand what he was seeing.

But before Maxwell could figure it out someone tapped his shoulder. "Ah, excuse me?"

They both turned in their seats and saw two men standing behind them, expressions friendly but curious, dressed casually in jeans and leather jackets and both sporting fashionable short perms. One was blonde with a light complexion and seemed on the younger side while the other had darker hair and skin and a well-trimmed beard.

"Are you really priests?"

Anderson didn't hesitate. "Yes. How can I help you, my children?" Internally Maxwell rolled his eyes but it was still rather amusing to see how he could switch gears so quickly. Part of why he posed an interesting challenge, after all.

The men exchanged glances with each other. "I'm surprised they let you visit a place like this."

"Like this?" Maxwell examined the two more closely. They seemed very comfortable with each other, standing tall and leaning slightly forward as if ready for a fight. Then the blonde put an arm across the bearded one's shoulders and the gesture was returned with a hand on the chest and the intimacy was unmistakable. "We're not here on official business." He smiled to put them at ease and it worked, they relaxed then smiled back and walked off. Once they were gone he whispered into Anderson's ear, "Is this a gay establishment?"

"Heinkel and Yumiko said they scouted this place out," Anderson muttered, visibly embarrassed. "I asked them to find us somewhere discreet. Didn't want Iscariot being too public."

Maxwell raised an eyebrow. "Father, really now. You sent them together? What did you expect?" He laughed a little louder than he should have but he didn't care. 

"We should leave. I think you've had enough."

"Hmph. Italians know how to hold their liquor. I'm not a barbarian. Anyway, we're here to celebrate my becoming director. If I want to stay, we're staying." He beckoned to the bartender. "Give me your favorite."

Luca grinned and quickly poured him a double shot of black sambuca, placing it in front of him with a wink. As he tossed it back, he didn't miss the scowl that crossed Anderson's face.

"Seems as though he likes me."

Anderson grunted. "We're here for your birthday, remember? You're not director yet."

"I know. But I will be soon." Maxwell leaned against him, playing with the shot glass in his hands. "Dare I say you seem...jealous?" He chuckled when Anderson tensed up but didn't respond. This was the most dangerous thing he'd said tonight and he knew it, yet he felt too warm and loose-limbed to care.

The bass that had been pulsing occasionally throughout his body then picked up, becoming more insistent and drawing any people still at tables out of their chairs towards the dance floor. A glance at his watch showed that the hour had ticked over for the second time since they'd arrived; he hadn't realized it was getting so late.

"When do we need to leave?"

"We have the car for the night. But if you want to leave now we can."

"What, and cut my celebration short?"

With a sigh Anderson picked up his third beer. In response Maxwell returned to his cocktail, this one going down easier than the previous two. There was a strange feeling starting at the base of his throat as though something were trying to lodge itself there but he shrugged it off and finished the drink, waiting for Anderson to finish his as well. He couldn't always read the priest; the combination of directness and guardedness proved more difficult to understand than the high rituals of diplomacy, yet despite this it seemed like tonight some weakness had been exposed. All he had to do was spur on with his words and deeds like hounds until his quarry was laid out panting before him.

"Have you ever danced?"

Anderson let out a loud bark of a laugh without looking at him. "No."

Neither had Maxwell but Anderson knew that. "Why a discoteca then?"

"I told you—"

"There must be dozens of dive bars scattered across Rome. You could have chosen a place without a dance floor." Maxwell turned in his seat so he could get the answer head-on, one arm on the bar in front of Anderson like a weapon laid out in warning.

"Take it up with Yumiko and Heinkel." He kept looking ahead, face in profile so the raised line of his scar caught the occasional flashing light.

Leaning in closer, Maxwell lowered his voice just enough to still be heard over the music. "I don't want to talk to them. I want to talk to you." When Anderson didn't respond he continued, "You know I could have gone out by myself."

"I'm just here as your bodyguard." It was an obvious non-answer and from the way Anderson wouldn't make eye contact he knew it too.

They were close, so close to the sounding of the horn that signaled the end of the hunt; soon Maxwell would be able to pierce his body as well as his heart with this hunter’s knife forged of words, holding his head aloft before claiming the rest of the kill for himself. And in the end was this not a holy action, the ritual of the _curée_ merely Mass writ profane?

"All right, Mr. Bodyguard. Come with me." Getting to his feet as smoothly as he could despite the alcohol making itself known as soon as he began moving, he seized Anderson by the elbow and pulled him out of his seat. He waved at Luca, gesturing to show that they'd be back to pay their bill, and, emboldened by the bartender's responding grin, headed for the mens' room entrance marked by a red light.

Anderson could have easily resisted but instead he let himself be led. "You don't need me in there with you."

"I know."

As expected, the dimly-lit mens' room looked well-used though not filthy enough to be offputting. There were a few stalls, none of which was occupied at the moment, and twin mirrors above two sinks. As he let the door close Maxwell could see Anderson behind him in the mirrors, expression unreadable and shoulders tensed.

"Maxwell." His voice had more trepidation than threat in it.

Without saying anything Maxwell pushed him to the wall behind the door so if somebody entered they would be hidden, the sharp turn roiling the pit of his stomach in a way that he had to swallow to ignore. There was still some space between them but he bridged this with a hand on Anderson's chest. In response Anderson folded one large hand around his wrist, bare skin feeling hotter than usual through his sleeve, but didn't put any force into it.

"Don't."

Maxwell pressed harder, feeling Anderson's skin and muscle beneath the black cloth give slightly under his fingers. "And why not?" After several long seconds of silence, he added, "You don't have a good answer, do you, teacher?" He hadn't called him ‘teacher’ since his own ordination, the two of them made peers by it, and the choice to use it now was intentional.

Anderson shook his head. "This isn't right. The Church says—"

"The Church looks the other way. You draw the line in the strangest places. If the leader of Section 13 says it's right then it's right. _In persona Christi_ , no?"

"You're not the leader just yet." His voice was lower now but he still didn't move, his hold gentle. He could easily break Maxwell's wrist if he wanted to.

Maxwell didn't need to be reminded yet again and in truth he didn't care. He deserved what had already been promised to him. Anderson would be his. Otherwise what was all his hard work and sacrifice for? He would get the recognition and respect he was owed one way or another. So he wrapped his other hand around the rope that held Anderson's crucifix and pulled, bringing their faces closer together, before grasping the man's wrist the same way his own was being held.

"Enrico. We shouldn't do this."

His first name and we, not you: an arrow sunken deep into his quarry's flank."When you've had to," he paused, pretending to think of how to put it, "address your urges, teacher, have you thought of me?"

That pulled a groan out of Anderson, his breath hot on Maxwell’s face. At last, the final horn; Maxwell tightened his grip on Anderson’s wrist, fingers circling like hounds around their fallen prey. There was a look of surrender in Anderson's eyes mixed with something else, something that almost seemed like it might be closer to anger. But he released Maxwell's wrist and let his hand be guided down.

Holding Anderson's hand against himself just above the waistband of his trousers, Maxwell stopped but didn't let go: this was the real test of devotion. After a moment Anderson continued on the path set before him, using his free hand to loosen Maxwell's belt and give himself some room to work. Maxwell shifted his stance a bit, making it easier for Anderson to enter him.

The fact of Maxwell's body was by now an open secret in the halls of Iscariot. What did it matter, given the graver sins they committed in the name of the Lord? And Maxwell was deft and vicious enough to destroy somebody's life even without having the full leverage of official leadership. As expected given his past, Anderson moved with knowledge born of experience: one thumb on his clit and two fingers crooked inside him. He'd touched himself before, imagining that large hand instead of his own, and been touched by others so he understood the idea of it—but he wasn't going to think about that right now. To actually have Anderson himself know his flesh like this felt like nothing else. With a moan he leaned up to press their lips together. Anderson didn't return the kiss, as if he were still trying to hold back somehow, but he cupped his other hand around Maxwell's ass and pulled him closer in a way that drove his fingers deeper.

"Father Anderson." Maxwell grinned triumphantly and draped his arms around Anderson's shoulders, letting himself be held up. "Mine at last."

Sighing loudly through his nose as though he wanted to say something, Anderson began thrusting harder and he could feel how wet he was from the ease with which those thick fingers moved in and out, his stomach flipping at the realization of it. Pressed together like this it was hard to miss the erection growing between them but Maxwell wasn't going to touch it just yet. He was the one in control here, after all.

He’d been so focused on reaching this moment of feeling Anderson inside him he hadn't really thought about what he wanted their first encounter to be like (or if he even cared), but now there was something beginning to nag at him.

Despite the growing roughness of Anderson's thrusts, it was clear he was restraining himself and handling Maxwell delicately. For reasons he couldn't quite articulate this bothered him, the uneasiness roiling his stomach, then Anderson hit a certain angle that made his hips buck suddenly and he lost track of his thoughts. A second time, a renewed pressure on his clit, and the nausea that'd been threatening to tangle itself with his arousal rose up with force.

Italians knew how to hold their liquor, yes, but he'd never had anything stronger than wine. Retching, stomach churning, he grabbed Anderson's shoulders but it was too late to break away—he couldn't stop himself from puking onto Anderson's chest and even as his face burned hot with shame he could feel how his body contracted around the fingers deep inside him. Anderson had stopped moving but not withdrawn, as if he were waiting for Maxwell's next command. But Maxwell couldn't say anything just yet, his guts still rebelling against the liquor and forcing out more bile and drool as he heaved. While there wasn't much to bring up since they'd eaten several hours ago it was still humiliating, having to cling to the older man like a sick little kid, and when Anderson finally pulled his fingers out it made his stomach lurch in a new way.

"I'm taking you home," Anderson said as he zipped up Maxwell's pants and redid his belt, lingering a moment there before wiping his hand on his own shirt. He stepped over to the sinks to quickly get as much vomit off as he could with a wet paper towel, then pulled his coat shut to hide what was left of the mess and with one arm around Maxwell's shoulders guided him back to the bar. Once the bill was taken care of it was straight to the car, Anderson helping him into the backseat and ignoring his weak protests as well as the driver's questions. Maxwell leaned against the window, eyes closed, trying to focus on the feel of the hard cold glass against his forehead in order to steady his stomach. He'd gotten ahead of himself—no, he'd simply miscalculated, a tactical error. This wouldn't be the end of it. It couldn't be. Even the greatest military leaders sometimes had to regroup due to circumstances beyond their control.

The orphanage grounds were nearly deserted at this time of night. Maxwell longed for the office at the Vatican that would soon be his because there people had even more of an emphasis on discretion, on looking the other way, but Anderson managed to get him through the hallways without encountering any of the gossipy nuns or children. Once they were safely in Maxwell's bedroom, Anderson made him sit on his bed with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"I'll be right back."

Maxwell flopped back, arms spread out. There had to be a way to salvage this. When Anderson returned, wearing a fresh shirt and carrying a pitcher of water and a box of antacid tabs, he set the pitcher down on the bedside table without a word then locked the door.

"Sit up. You need water." He joined Maxwell on the bed, springs creaking under his weight.

Though the room still wobbled around him, Maxwell complied without argument and silently noted how Anderson was allowing their legs to touch. There was an empty glass on the table that Anderson picked up to fill and the twist of his torso shifted them closer together on the bed. When Maxwell removed his gloves and took the glass offered to him Anderson looked him in the eyes and watched as he drank.

"Pace yourself." The way Anderson said it sounded as though he were talking about more than just the water and it rankled.

"You don't need to tell me that."

Anderson sighed. "Just drink."

He finished the water and Anderson refilled it, dropping in a tab and nudging him to drink more. Despite the alcohol still flooding his system and disorienting him if he moved his head too fast, the nausea was mostly gone already but he did as he was told. Once the glass was empty again he reached across Anderson to set it down, arm pressing against his chest, and when the man didn't move he dropped his hand to his thigh.

"Enrico."

He didn't sound as hesitant this time so Maxwell didn't respond, just slid his hand up. Undoing the belt and fly, he palmed at Anderson's cock through his underwear and grinned when he began to get the response he wanted. Anderson didn't move, his hands gripping the sheets, but he was breathing more heavily and the trace of anger in his eyes earlier had now been replaced with something else that Maxwell could not yet recognize.

"Lie down, teacher."

Anderson did as he was told, the obedience sending a thrill through Maxwell, and laid back with his feet still on the floor. Maxwell pulled his underwear down just enough to expose him fully, appreciating both the size of it and the sight of Father Anderson submissive and profaned. The contrast between the black of his clerical clothing and the reddening of his hard cock was as much a work of art as anything that could be found in a cathedral, the warm flesh polychrome like the gilded wood of a devotional sculpture and the fabric cool like the bronze of the _Baldacchino di San Pietro_ as if marking a sacred place. Here, then, was the culmination of what Maxwell had worked for, proof that he was desired and desirable. If the cross mounted on a golden globe above the cornice wrought by Bernini’s faithful hands represented the world redeemed by Catholicism, then this—he reached out to wrap a hand around Anderson’s cock—was his own private redemption.

Maxwell began slowly moving his hand up and down. The priest exhaled loudly and closed his eyes, briefly thrusting into his fist once before stopping as if forcing himself to stay still.

"Don't hold back," Maxwell murmured. But it didn't happen again even after picking up the pace. Stubborn man. He let go, examining the precum that'd slicked his fingers, then stood and removed his trousers as he did his best to keep his balance. He wanted to hear his name said like a prayer and if this was what it took then so be it.

He slung his hips across Anderson, pushing the man's cock down beneath him to grind on it by sitting on its length. This earned him eye contact again though as usual his face was impossible to read. He rocked back and forth slightly, his wetness growing as he did so, then raised himself up and Anderson's cock rose again as if to meet him. When it seemed like Anderson might turn his head to the side he grabbed his chin.

"Look at me."

Anderson complied, expressionless despite the fingers pressing hard against his jaw and cheeks. Without letting go of his face Maxwell positioned himself above Anderson's cock and began sinking down. He winced as he tried to adjust; he'd never gone beyond fingers but he was determined to prove himself. Despite the pain—which wasn't that bad, really, he'd known worse—he could feel his face growing hot from more than just exertion.

"Enrico." His name came out slightly slurred so he released his hold on Anderson's jaw.

"Don't hold back," Maxwell said again, gasping as he felt his thighs meet Anderson's hips. He'd managed to take it all and thanks to the regenerator's unnatural body heat he could easily feel every thick inch. He bent down to press a fierce kiss to Anderson's lips and Anderson grabbed onto his hips.

"Is this what you thought it'd be like?" The priest said this quietly, with a hint of what almost seemed like guilt. "Your first time?"

The question was annoying but the tone was worse. "Don't talk down to me," he muttered before going back for another kiss, his eyes open and staring into Anderson's the whole time. It didn't matter what he'd imagined. He wasn't a little kid, still fantasizing about fairy-tale romances, and he wasn't so naive as to think such a foolish thing mattered. He was simply a man claiming another man as his own.

Carefully, getting a feel for how this worked, Maxwell shifted enough to feel the cock barely slide out then back in. The movement tied a knot at the pit of his stomach, not of nausea this time but something more intense. He tried again, intending to pick up the pace, but Anderson was still holding Maxwell's hips and forcing him to go slow.

"Let go of me."

"No."

"Let go!" He grabbed Anderson's hands, digging in hard, but they didn't budge.

"You need to work on your self-control."

Maxwell glared down at him, the admonishment only fueling his drunken stubbornness.

"You should practice what you preach, _Father_ ," he hissed. "We both know you have the power to put a stop to this whenever you want."

The light reflecting off Anderson's glasses wasn't enough to hide the way his eyes narrowed. But he took a couple deep breaths then released his hold on Maxwell, hands resting at his sides once more.

"Thought as much," Maxwell said with a sneer. He rolled his hips in smug punctuation. Anderson grunted and looked away so Maxwell grabbed his face again. "Don't you dare talk to me about self-control. Not when you're fucking your student." At the word 'student' he flinched, making Maxwell pause then chuckle bitterly. "How long have you dreamed about this?"

That snapped him back into eye contact. He stayed silent but on top of him like this Maxwell could feel the way his entire body tensed up. Satisfied, Maxwell let go of his face and instead braced himself with both hands on his broad chest for leverage as he began moving slowly enough to savor the feeling of the man inside him. A flush of red was spreading across Anderson's cheeks, his gaze going slightly unfocused, and when Maxwell shifted his weight just so he brought his hands back up to Maxwell's hips. This time there was no force behind it and Maxwell grinned, placing one of his hands over Anderson’s. He'd won. And so he sped up, his other hand still pressed hard against Anderson's breastbone, reveling in the feeling of the cock sliding in and out of him with such ease now that it was as though they'd been meant to do this.

Anderson closed his eyes and whispered, "Enrico." It sounded like a plea.

There it was, his name as a prayer. "Louder." He let go of Anderson's hand and slicked his own fingers with spit before touching them to himself.

"Enrico," he murmured obediently. His hold on Maxwell's hips tightened again, but he no longer tried to restrain him.

What an incredible rush, to have this powerful man surrender so completely to him. "Again." As a prickling sensation spread from the small of his back up across his shoulders and neck he rubbed at himself faster, the alcoholic buzzing feeling in his head growing to match the tightness coiling itself across his entire lower body.

"Enrico." Anderson was breathing heavily now, brows furrowed, and he started meeting each of Maxwell's thrusts with his own.

"Say you're mine."

Anderson kept his mouth closed but didn't look away, fingers squeezing hard enough to leave bruises as he bucked roughly, once, twice, before arching up with a groan that left no doubt as to what was happening. The regenerator's body heat was high enough to render him sterile but the symbolism of it, of the cum dripping out as Maxwell kept moving, was thrilling enough. And it wasn't spilled in vain, no, this was in a way a baptism—he couldn't keep his intoxicated thoughts on track while that particular tension kept building to what felt like a needlepoint sharpness—

Maxwell came hard, his head thrown back and legs jolting as he contracted around Anderson’s cock.

Once he could breathe again he rolled off and laid on the bed next to Anderson, contemplating the sticky wet mess between his legs. It was not an especially glamorous feeling. But it meant he'd gotten what he'd wanted, Anderson's absolute submission, and that was almost enough. They could work on true deference later. He didn't need approval since he knew he must have it by now or he wouldn't have been obeyed; Anderson had taught him that authority went hand in hand with the exercise of power so he was simply practicing what he'd learned. Wasn't he? If Anderson recognized how good a student he was, how well he understood his lessons, then there would never be a reason to leave him behind.

A rustling sound alerted him to movement. Anderson had pulled out a handkerchief and was wiping himself clean, looking at it for a brief moment when he was done before wadding it into a ball and putting it back in a pocket then zipping himself up. There were some stains on the front of his trousers but nothing that his coat couldn't hide. It was a shame his body wouldn't allow for more permanent marks, though Maxwell could always try to leave a necklace of bruises next time because he knew this had to happen again.

Anderson sat up and pushed himself to his feet, bedsprings creaking once more, and stood there gazing down at Maxwell. The look in his eyes was an evaluating one, Maxwell knew, because he'd seen it from all the adults here at some point or another. This time, though, it was more ambiguous. Anderson opened his mouth, paused, then closed it and with another of those long sighs fished the handkerchief back out and tossed it onto Maxwell's lap before heading for the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob as though he still wanted to say something, or wanted Maxwell to say it first. But Maxwell didn't need reassurance or tenderness from anyone. That didn't mean he couldn't want it, a traitorous voice whispered, and he crushed that thought quickly.

"See you tomorrow, teacher."

Anderson paused again then shook his head and let himself out. The sound of the door clicking shut didn't sound different from any other time.

Alone now, Maxwell picked up the soiled handkerchief and on a whim brought it to his face for a deep inhale. Unsurprisingly, it carried the scent of cigarette smoke layered with something muskier that he recognized from all the times Anderson had bent over him. But mixed in there was—was that what he smelled like to Anderson? What they'd done didn't quite feel real yet somehow, even as he used the handkerchief to clean himself up before tucking it under his pillow. What mattered was now that they'd been joined in this way they couldn't ever be parted. He got up, still naked from the waist down, and went over to his desk to pull out a pack of cigarettes, carefully navigating the room as it seesawed around him. Once he'd gotten the lighter to cooperate with his shaky hands he returned to the bed to sit where Anderson had been. It was still warm.

He sat there smoking and prodding at the emotions rolling around his mind like a river overflowing its muddy banks. When he'd heard people talk about love it was always in an abstract sense; God as an absent father who would sometimes buy useless gifts and sometimes hold a belt in his fist, the buckle glinting, or a mother saying that she loves you only after you've boarded a train with a letter to an orphanage in your suitcase. Anderson's hands on him, whether blessing him after Communion or gripping his hips as he came, felt like something else.

In the end, it didn't matter what that something was.

As the prophet Jeremiah said, "The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?"

Maxwell lit another cigarette. No, better to focus on confounding those who had persecuted him, on bringing upon them the day of evil so he could destroy them and be victorious. Even if he suffered tomorrow with a headache above and soreness below it would only prove that he'd set himself upon the right path. After all, what story starts without some kind of pain? Whosoever is born of God overcometh the world, as Anderson liked to remind his students, and if the one true God and Anderson were the only Fathers who would embrace him and hunt alongside him then so be it.

With Anderson by his side and under his control nobody would be able to stand in his way. And now every time he touched Anderson, felt him breathing beneath him, Maxwell could be sure that he'd never again be alone.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are always much appreciated.


End file.
